


and the pieces finally fit

by rinsled05



Series: Magic & Moonshine [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Backstory, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Magic, Siblings, Slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/pseuds/rinsled05
Summary: Companion pieces toMurder on the Dance Floor- a Victuuri historical AU in 1920s, Prohibition era, USA, with murder and magic and a whole lotta swing.[Written for Yuri on Ice Fantasy Zine, in collaboration with the talented flitzsa @ tumblr]





	1. In the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!
> 
> Go [here](https://flitzsa.tumblr.com/post/175209394540/the-greatest-secrets-are-always-hidden-in-the) for Ali's (flitzsa) amazing art for this piece.

The late 1920’s, an age of jazz and swing and wild extravagance.  
  
A time when liquor was banned, when speakeasies rose in numbers, when the mafia grew in power and a good caper was admired, celebrated even.  
  
What historians failed to capture was the ban of something less talked about, something much lesser known.   
  
People fear the unknown.   
  
And people were terrified of magic.   
  
Europe was the first to use magic in the war to end all wars: potions that bewitched allies into their ranks, voodoo dolls that brought excruciating agony, fire spells that lit up the trenches and blew scores of men to kingdom come. Battles were lost; a great many soldiers killed. As the media stirred the masses into a frenzy– _Germany Contracts With The Devil!?_ –hating magic and all who dabbled in the ancient art made one a good Christian. A full-blooded American, some might say.  
  
Then came the Volstead Act, passed in an effort to reduce crime and immorality, to rid the country of the evil temptations of alcohol - the devil’s agent. Truth told though, the government was more concerned about a whole other sort of agent. One that had to do with hexes, spells, and potions, the secret covens of witches and sorcerers concealed among decent, law-abiding citizens.   
  
The Volstead Act, with its well-concealed anti-magic clause, was as much a ban on alcohol as it was a declaration against all things magical.   
  
As with liquor, magic slipped into the shadows, the underbelly of civilized society. Only those privy to its secrets were well-aware of its existence: hidden in book stores, pharmacies, a little coffee shop tucked in the corner of a quiet street. Under people’s noses, magic continued to thrive, grow, even flourish, bringing in an increasing number of raw talents into its fold.   
  
One such talent was Yuuri Katsuki.  
  
And his story began with a murder.


	2. Yuuri & Phichit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Life was meant for good friends and great adventures.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go [here](https://flitzsa.tumblr.com/post/175410039285/life-was-meant-for-good-friends-and-great) for Ali's (flitzsa) amazing art for this piece.

Yuuri was born to simple innkeepers by Lake Michigan. He had everything: a loving family, home cooked food, and a roof over his head. Only thing he didn’t have, was love for himself. Told himself at the tender age of five that he wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough.

It all started with his glasses. Children are nasty little creatures that hone in on the weak, the small, the unique. They mocked him relentlessly, shouted names from classroom windows and across the playground: four-eyes, window face, googly eyes. Wasn’t long before they moved to his weight ‘cause Yuuri ate when he was upset. Ballooned as he found comfort in his mother’s sinfully deep-fried dishes, as the names got worse and the taunting grew more cruel.

And then, there’s his magic.

It scared him, made him feel lower than he’d ever felt in his life. No one in his family does magic, so no one in his family gets it - what it means to feel like some sorta hood, some kinda  _monster_.

That’s when Phichit finds him. Sobbing and conjuring shapes with blue fire, hidden behind an abandoned warehouse. He’s eleven, and Phichit, eight. “I can do magic too,” Phichit announces, boldly, and he sends out a winged horse made of green flames. Yuuri doesn’t move at first, but then he laughs, and laughs, choking on his tears, and a lifelong friendship is born.

After graduating high school, they decide to start up a secret business selling spells and potions in the city, just the two of them. (“You’re mad,” Yuuri says when Phichit suggests it, but he goes along with it anyway.)

They make a decent living over the years, even some new friends. Seung-gil, by far, is Phichit’s favorite; fella acts like he’s got a stick up his ass, and Phichit can’t resist prodding, see how far up it goes.

And it’s great, this life, it really is. Yuuri’s smiling now: once, twice, sometimes three times a day. It’s all Phichit wants for his best bud. ‘cept the thing with Yuuri is, he’s a homebody. Likes to lay low, like Seung-gil. Now Phichit: he’s not above a bit of excitement. So he goes out to find exactly that, at The Golden Hour, one of Chicago’s biggest speaks. Meets the hostess, Sara, on his first night.

“What’re you into?” she asks, headpiece glinting gold in the light. “Men or women?”

“If I like both?” Phichit says.

“Then you’re in the right place,” she says, red lips curving.

With Sara in his pocket, Phichit finds himself in the inner circles of The Golden Hour within a month. The owner, Christophe, takes a liking to him, and pretty soon, he’s helping the old boy run a few “errands” on the side. Simple stuff, nothing too dangerous.

When he learns about Christophe’s ritzy annual party, invitation only, he takes on a couple more jobs, determined for a real taste of the high life.

“You’re out a lot these days,” Yuuri observes. “Not doing anything crazy, are you?”

“Just making sure Seung-gil’s having regular meals,” Phichit says. Technically, it’s true - he drops by to deliver the hermit some food now and then.

“All right,” Yuuri says, trusting as always. Poor boy’s too busy carryin’ a torch for that handsome witch hunter, anyway.

So everything’s great. Better than great. He’s got friends in high places and friends where it counts.

And then, of course, some patsy just had to get himself knocked off.


	3. Viktor Nikiforov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!
> 
> Go [here](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/post/175689466432/dreaming-fireflies-flitzsa-a-lil-magic) for Ali's (flitzsa) amazing art for this piece.

Viktor remembers. The grotesque twist to what used to be his Pa’s body, the burnt smell and his Ma’s endless screaming. The result of a fire spell delivered personally by the Huns. To this day, Viktor wonders why anyone would bring an eight-year-old to see that sort of thing, why they thought his mind could handle it.

It didn’t. Not for him, not for his Ma.

She died within weeks. Slit her own throat with a razor blade. Melancholia, the doctors called it. A broken heart, his relatives said. And as the adults left him alone, left him staring at the blood stain on the bathroom tiles with too-dry eyes, he knew the real cause.

Magic.

Magic killed his parents.

A family friend took him in— _Call me Yakov_ , the old man grunted, standing straight and tall in his officer’s uniform—just a year before the government, finally, nailed down the devil’s handiwork.

Viktor remembers. The fights he had with Yakov, the disagreements. He was in Yakov’s unit, the youngest anti-magic agent in the history of the federal agency. “You need to  _calm down_ ,” Yakov hissed after hauling Viktor off a suspect. “We have protocols—”

“To hell with protocols,” Viktor said, knuckles dripping blood.

So he left, Yakov’s shouts ringing in his ears. Started his own one-man agency; no protocols, no paperwork, no Yakov. Nothing standing between him and magic.

Viktor remembers. How his Ma batted her eyelashes for a cheaper, bigger cut of meat, how his Pa drank and smoked and did everything he hated for a quicker promotion, a bigger salary.

So Viktor puts on a show, just like his parents. Smiles and winks through his passionate speeches. It lowers people’s guards, helps him get answers. Helps him get business too, the kind that’ll serve the rope to those magic-using bastards.

Funny thing is, he’s got no issue with liquor. Unlike magic, alcohol has its uses. With alcohol, his apartment doesn’t seem as grey or empty. With alcohol, life actually feels like it’s worth living. Helps that his childhood friend’s now an owner of a speak. Good-looking and needle-sharp, Christophe Giacometti once charmed his way out of a prohibition raid. And they’re all like that, the folks at the speaks. Most of them, anyway.

(“I could pinch you right now,” Viktor says as Chris saunters up to him, a whiskey bottle in hand.

“But you won’t,” Chris laughs, popping the cork open in one smooth pull. “Can I offer you some Canadian Club?”)

Viktor thinks he’s happy the way things are. Content, even.

Until he meets a young man with black hair and honey-brown eyes, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to remember quite so much anymore.


	4. Christophe Giacometti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My life is a party thrown for me by my own decisions.”   
> -Kelsey Grammer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!
> 
> Go [here](https://flitzsa.tumblr.com/post/175889613130/my-life-is-a-party-thrown-for-me-by-my-own) for Ali's (flitzsa) amazing art for this piece.

By the age of nine, Christophe Giacometti knew he liked men.

Probably had something to do with the way he held a torch for Viktor Nikiforov for the longest time. It amounted to nothing, of course, for Viktor’s mind had no space for love back then, every piece of it filled with dark fantasies of revenge and retribution. It’s not a topic Christophe ever broaches; how does one tell a magic hater that magic doesn’t seem so bad?

They went their separate ways after graduation, Viktor joining the federal agency, Christophe going into the liquor business. He started out small, a runner for the latest imports from Detroit. He learned how to wield a gun—learned to feel the weight, the jolt of impact when it fired—and, more importantly, he learned how to lie. It’s the lying, really, that helped him rise through the ranks. Helped him secure a role in the speaks, oversee their operations.

Flattery and glibness go a long way. Far longer than a bullet to the head.

Now, it’s no secret to his colleagues that he’s got ambition. So it comes as no surprise to them, either, when Christophe announces the opening of his very own speak. The Golden Hour: the speak for gays and lesbians and any and all who love to live and live to love - good American citizens trying to find a decent place in this crazy world. And it takes off, this new business. He makes a killing every night, with the best hostess, the best booze, the best bootleggers and rum-runners in the Midwest. Even hires the best errand boy: some pretty-looking, fast-talking fella who goes by Phichit.

All this time, Christophe hasn’t heard from Viktor.

Then one fine day, the man strolls into his speak. Carefree as you please, packing heat over his fine-pressed suit and looking keen as he was five years ago.

“I don’t serve no goddamn Prohi bastards,” the bartender hisses, hand reaching for the hidden pistol. Christophe’s quick to swoop in, sliding a twenty across the counter.

“Tough crowd,” Viktor chuckles as the bartender takes the kale and moves away with a look that could kill.

“You  _are_  a Fed,” Christophe points out.

“Not anymore,” Viktor says.

_Well now_ , thinks Christophe.

“Got my own business,” Viktor continues. “Anti-magic stuff. So if you see anything strange happening—” Fingers reach into the dark jacket, pulls out a simple, handwritten card. “—you know who to call.”

As Viktor turns to leave, Christophe fingers the card in his hand, runs a thumb down the silver trim. Elegant but empty, like someone he knows all too well. “Hey Viktor,” he calls, waits for the other man to glance over his shoulder. “Come back for a drink sometime.”

Viktor tips the brim of his hat.

Didn’t seem like his best friend had space for love back then; doesn’t seem like he’s got space for love now.

Until Christophe watches Viktor Nikiforov lock hands and eyes with a young man on the dance floor, and just like that, his friend’s got space for nothing but.


	5. Sara & Michele Crispino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Twins have a special bond. They feel safer with each other than with their peers."  
> ~Jeanne Phillips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!
> 
> Go [here](https://flitzsa.tumblr.com/post/176425339955/twins-have-a-special-bond-they-feel-safer-with) for Ali's (flitzsa) amazing art for this piece.

Sara and Michele have been inseparable since birth. Find one, and you’re sure to find the other. It’s a twin thing, they’ve been told. Well, whatever it is, they’re happy together and only when together.

Until school starts, that is.

Things change then, with outgoing little Sara wanting to make new friends, and morose little Michele wanting Sara all to himself. When Sara bops Michele on the head, yells at him through sobs and hiccups to “stop scaring my friends away”, their parents wonder if their sweet Mickey’s love has turned into something concerning, something  _obsessive_.

But Sara tells them that her brother is fine, that he  _has_  to be fine. “He’ll get better,” she says, wiping the edge of her sleeve across her big, watery eyes.

Only, he doesn’t. Growls and snarls like a feral dog at every fella who looks her way, who dares to strike up a conversation in his presence. All that, even after Sara confesses her leaning toward women. It’s like some twisted form of denial, his persistence in chasing off all other men in her life. Sara’s Bruno, their classmates call him, and the less brave give Sara a wide berth, terrified of Michele’s glare and gnashing teeth.

Suddenly, the ‘twin thing’ ain’t all that cute anymore.

Fed up, 18-year-old Sara sneaks out one day in the rain, loiters the alleyways of a rumored territory for troubled boys and hoods.

If Michele wants trouble with men, oh, she’ll give him trouble.

“What’s a pretty dame like you doing in a place like this?”

She whirls round to see a man with dirty blond hair and a lopsided smile, his hands in the trouser pockets of what looks like a thousand dollar suit.

“Lookin’ for trouble,” she says, ignoring the thudding of her heart.

The man chuckles. “Then you’re in the right place,” he says.

He offers her three things: a job, a closet of sequined dresses, and his name - Christophe Giacometti. And what a job. All she does is put on a dress and attend night after night of fabulous, extravagant parties. It’s wild and oh-so-fun, all that drinking and dancing, laughing and singing. She’s not into the alcohol, but the lights, the colors, the people-  _her_ people -are more than enough to get her real zozzled. The fun triples, some years later, when she meets a new fella with stars in his eyes and the sort of smile that’d make a girl swoon.

“Phichit,” he says when she asks for his name, and they become fast friends; faster still, when Christophe hires him on as errand boy.

It works out swell, until Michele finally puts two and two together and follows her out one night. Discovers, then, that his perfect baby sister ain’t a night-shift nurse like she said she was.

Michele’s arrival is a disaster; he works up a real lather over her dressing and her gams being exposed to anyone with eyes. People are amused at first, until he starts smashing bottles and yelling nasty things at Christophe, at servers, at every poor soul within reach.

Sara is mortified.

It takes a gun to clam up Michele and three men to haul him, kicking and flailing, out of the speakeasy.

“Is this going to be a problem?” Christophe asks after a beat of silence. If he’s at all shaken, his smooth voice betrays nothing.

“No,” Sara says, fingers digging into the silver mesh of her little black dress.

“No, it is not.”


	6. Jean-Jacques Leroy & Isabella

Meet a nice girl, settle down, have a big ol’ family.

That was Jean-Jacques’s master plan - if it hadn’t been for the Great Depression. He had a job back then, working in some hotsy-totsy corporation. Didn’t pay much—not enough for his skill set—but it would’ve kept him going. Would’ve kept Isabella going too, for he had proposed the  _ second _ he got the job. 

Sweet, sweet Isabella. What a dish, what a doll. He’d die for the girl, he really would. She got him out of his slump, encouraged him to talk to people and get his name out somewhere,  _ anywhere _ , s’long as it got him the dough they sorely needed. (All while working full-time as a typist; could a fella be any luckier, landing a swell chick like that?)

Turns out, their next-door neighbor is in sore need of something too: booze. Lots and lots of booze. Sure, Canada tried the whole prohibition thing, but it didn’t work out so well over here. Didn’t work out at all, really.

Whatever the case, there’s a niche, and Jean-Jacques is more than happy to fill it. He works out a deal with a distillery, secures a safe route to Detroit, right down to Chicago. Finds, through the grapevine, a speak called The Golden Hour that’s still in search of an… exporter, shall we say. Giacometti’s the owner, and a real sharp one he is. (Sharper than he looks, anyway.) Fella haggles down Jean-Jacques’s prices, refuses to budge until he’s satisfied with the numbers. 

“Isn’t this illegal?” Isabella asks at one point. She’s watching him supervise the men as they load up the delivery truck with boxes and boxes of Canada’s finest whiskey. 

“Only if we get caught,” Jean-Jacques says with a grin. 

There’s a single, heart-stopping moment where Isabella just looks at him, face blank, and he starts to wonder if maybe he’s gone over his head, if he has invested in a business that will ruin his—no  _ their _ —master plan. But then Isabella smiles, that sweet little quirk of her lips that makes him want to dip her down and kiss her, over and over.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” she tells him. 

So Jean-Jacques does exactly that. And it works, beautifully, perfectly. Other speaks soon catch wind of his operations, opening his path to more negotiations, more deals. His pockets grow fat with dough, and soon, he even receives an exclusive invite to Christophe’s swanky annual shindigs - a clear sign of his rising status in Chicago. Isabella calls it an obligatory invitation—“Ah,” Christophe says, white teeth flashing, “I didn’t think you’d come, old boy,”—but as far as Jean-Jacques is concerned, an invitation is an invitation, whatever the reason. 

So, just like that, Jean-Jacques is back on track. Got a job, a wonderful wife, and an ever-growing pile of greens.

What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!


	7. Lee Seung-gil

Seung-gil hates people. Far as he’s concerned, the world can burn; the less morons to deal with, the better.

They say it’s cause his Ma’s a pro skirt, a street walker. A chippy who entertains all kinds of fellas in the house, like a grocery store open 24-7. Well, who the hell is ‘they’, and why the hell should he care? It is what it is, after his Pa flew the coop with some other broad. Ain’t like his Ma loves him any less; she just has a lot more to love in her spare time.

That’s why Seung-gil got into voodoo. It’s pliable, malleable. _Controllable._ It’s a rush, manipulating the little dolls to his wishes, getting them to do exactly as he commands. The Huns got the right idea, using magic in the war. What Seung-gil doesn’t get is why Uncle Sam didn’t fight fire with fire. He could’ve been a real asset with his black magic, maybe even made Sergeant Major.

But no, the Americans took a whole ‘nother route with magic. Made it evil, made it the devil’s handiwork. Propaganda at its finest. It’s just as well for Seung-gil. Gives him the perfect reason to hide in his new apartment, away from crowds and sunlight and hatred for all things magical.

And then Phichit breaks down the proverbial door and ruins everything. For a small town sorcerer, the guy’s a live wire, his easy grin a zing of lightning to Seung-gil’s cold, weary soul. It’s too much; far too much to take at one go. He tells Phichit as much—hisses at him, really—not that Phichit listens, or cares. Every few days, the madman brings food and grand tales about speaks and booze, flappers and dappers. Every few days, the soft-spoken Yuuri drops by with him, with a smile and a gentle “I hope you’ve been well”.

Truth told, Seung-gil likes the company. Even takes on Phichit and Yuuri’s suggestion of selling potions for a few clams, money unstained by his Ma’s little sideshow acts in their old family home. (Not that he’ll ever tell the two mugs.)

So he trucks on, growing—dare he say it— _content_ with life.

Until, one day, a man swings by. “I want the strongest spell you’ve got,” he says.

_Well_ , Seung-gil thinks. _About damn time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the YOI fantasy zine organizers for the wonderful opportunity!

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my fics [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rinsled05/works) or come squeal with me on tumblr @ [dreaming-fireflies](http://dreaming-fireflies.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Please also check out Ali's fabulous art on her tumblr @ [flitzsa](https://flitzsa.tumblr.com/).


End file.
